Brooding
by roane
Summary: Bilbo first suspected something was terribly wrong the morning he found Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, weeping at the breakfast table. (mpreg, crack, utter silliness)


Bilbo first suspected something was terribly wrong the morning he found Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, weeping at the breakfast table. He had never seen Thorin cry before. Even when Thorin had first seen the inside of Erebor after seventy-one years of wandering through the wilderness, it only brought a manly glimmer to his eye. Bilbo had seen him take grievous wounds, suffer horrible losses, and they only brought screaming cries of rage, not tears.

"Are—are you hurt?" Bilbo asked.

"No," Thorin growled, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "I'm fine." The effect was somewhat spoilt by the wavery, watery tone of his voice, but Bilbo let it be, and set about making breakfast.

Bilbo put it out of his mind. As King, Thorin had already faced numerous challenges, from as petty as seating arrangements at feasts to as serious as the near-loss of Kili and Fili in the Battle of the Five Armies. Even so doughty a dwarf as Thorin must get overwhelmed sometimes.

Besides, Bilbo had problems of his own to cope with. He knew that some were starting to question why a hobbit would remain in a dwarven kingdom for months after the expiration of his contract, and Bilbo sometimes questioned it himself. He missed Bag End terribly, with an ache in his heart (and a rumbling in his belly when he thought about the rich harvests that would be coming in from the gardens right about now). But then he would see Thorin sitting with his harp of an evening, and he would lift his head and give Bilbo a secret smile that meant Bilbo should follow him to the royal chambers later—and Bilbo would decide that perhaps he could put off the journey home a little while longer.

When Thorin started complaining of increasing aches and pains, Bilbo thought that perhaps age was starting to catch up to him. Bilbo might not understand everything about the dwarven lifespan, but he did understand the (very distinguished) streaks of silver in Thorin's hair. There were other signs as well, of course. Thorin was starting to fill out a bit through his midsection—and secretly Bilbo was quite pleased about that, taking it as a compliment to his cooking.

He mightn't have thought anything more about it, but for the day he was in the royal kitchens doing the baking. It was one of the tasks he kept for himself; no one else got the scones just right. Kili came flying in, nearly upsetting the tray ready to go into the oven. "Bilbo! Come quickly!"

The urgency in his voice struck fear into Bilbo's heart and he followed as fast as his furry feet would carry him. They were running towards the armory, he noted, and his fear increased.

Before they were within sight of the doors, Bilbo could hear Thorin bellowing in Khuzdul. There wasn't a word of it that he could understand, of course, but Thorin sounded as angry as Bilbo had ever heard him.

"_Kulhu birâglâbizu? Ma mahabhyùr rukhs katakhigeri!_"

When the shouts started from the others in the room, Bilbo and Kili put on extra speed. They burst through the doors to the armory to see Thorin in a rage, wielding Orcrist with deadly intent over Fili. For his part, Fili was standing his ground admirably.

Bilbo didn't think twice. He darted across the room and threw himself in front of Fili. "Thorin, no!" There was a split second when Bilbo thought he might have made a dreadful miscalculation, and that Thorin would wind up spilling the blood of two of his Company, rather than just one.

Then Thorin faltered, some of the terrible rage draining from his face along with the colour. He fell to his knees and did the most terrifying thing of all: Thorin burst into tears.

Silence fell in the armory, the only sound that of Thorin sniffling into his beard.

The dwarves looked at each other with wide eyes, then as a group, looked to Bilbo. Bilbo hurried over to Thorin and carefully took Orcrist from his hand, holding it back behind him until someone—Fili, if he had to guess—took it from him. "Come on, Your Majesty, up you get." He urged Thorin to his feet and ushered him out of the room. He knew many of the hidden, twisty passageways of Erebor already, and managed to get Thorin back to his chambers with a minimum of fuss and no witnesses.

"What in Durin's name is going on?" Bilbo said. Dwarvish oaths came to him easier here than hobbit-y ones. Oaths in the Shire tended to be about harvests and pig-farming, and made no sense in a city beneath solid rock.

"Nothing, I'm fine." Thorin's eyes were red-rimmed.

Bilbo pulled out his handkerchief—he never went anywhere without one these days—and started wiping Thorin's face and beard. "Oh yes, very fine, I see that. Just what did Fili do that warranted a royal smiting?"

Thorin muttered something without meeting Bilbo's eyes.

"What was that? I didn't quite hear."

"He said I was growing as stout as Bombur," Thorin said, a little louder.

If Thorin didn't look so absolutely miserable, Bilbo would have laughed.

"And he said my armor wouldn't fit anymore."

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheeks.

Thorin batted Bilbo's handkerchief away and added the _coup de grace_. "And it _doesn't_!"

There was no power in Middle Earth that could have held back Bilbo's snicker.

"It's not funny!" Thorin roared, which of course, made it even funnier. Bilbo laughed until he cried tears of his own and wound up collapsing back on the feather bed, helpless with mirth. Where earlier that laughter might have resulted in spilt blood, after a few disgruntled mutters, Thorin joined in, his low rumbling laugh blending with Bilbo's higher-pitched giggles. A short while later the two of them were similarly entwined, tears forgotten.

* * *

And so life might have continued on throughout the winter (and might have resulted in a very large surprise before long) had not Gandalf the Grey come to Erebor.

Thorin was seated upon the throne of Erebor with the Arkenstone glittering above his head in its rightful place. Bilbo was given a place of honour nearby, standing with Kili and Fili and Balin. Thorin was wearing one of his new tunics, as the old ones could be let out no further.

As Gandalf came sweeping up the stone walkway, Bilbo saw his step falter as he looked at Thorin. Gandalf looked at Bilbo with narrowed eyes, then a wide, dangerous smile formed on his wizardly countenance.

After the formal greetings were given, and Gandalf was seated with all thirteen members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, he settled back with his glass of wine and smiled. "So I see congratulations are in order, Your Majesty."

"We couldn't have done it without your burglar," Thorin said, clapping a hand to Bilbo's shoulder. "He made all this possible."

For some reason, Gandalf nearly choked on his wine. "Yes. Well."

"We couldn't have taken back Erebor without him," Balin said loyally.

"Ah yes, Erebor," Gandalf said, his enigmatic smile back and broader than ever. "My dear man, I meant about the new heir of Durin."

There was a moment of silent confusion, as the Company looked at one another.

"The baby!" Gandalf said, growing impatient.

"What baby?" asked Kili, his pretty little brow furrowing.

Bilbo felt a growing sense of unease and horror in the center of his belly. He looked over at Thorin, at the swell of his midsection. He thought back to life in the Shire, cousins and aunts complaining about sore joints and crying at the smallest thing and swollen feet and—oh. But—

"No," he said, standing up. "No, that is not possible, absolutely not. No."

"Infrequent, my boy," Gandalf said mildly, "but not unheard of. And when hobbits and dwarves will sport, who can say what will come of it?"

The silent confusion turned to silent shock, all eyes moving between Bilbo and Thorin.

Thorin stood up as well, one hand resting against his growing belly. "I—nope." His eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched to the ground.

The dwarves went to the aid of their fallen King, while Bilbo stood where he was as if he'd grown roots. He was—he was going to be a father? And Thorin was the—the other father?

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and Bilbo looked up to see Gandalf smiling down at him.

* * *

"Harder," Thorin whimpered. "Please, harder, Bilbo."

Bilbo grumbled. His hands were already sore from rubbing Thorin's sore back, but he shoved his thumbs into Thorin's instep. Try as he might, he couldn't get used to feet without much hair; white, wormy things that wouldn't even grow a proper callus. But, as the baby grew, Thorin's feet took the brunt of the extra weight, and were always sore.

Thorin's pregnancy was the talk of Erebor, and indeed, the world beyond as well. Everyone wanted to come see the pregnant dwarf King, and they'd had to restrict travel into Erebor for official business only.

More frustrating, no one seemed to know what to expect. Of course, given that no one could properly explain how such a pregnancy had even_happened_ Bilbo supposed he wasn't surprised. The dwarven midwives had their store of knowledge, but who could say how much of it would apply in this case? Some dwarven mothers had spent as long as five years in pregnancy with one child—_that_ realisation had nearly sent Bilbo screaming into the wilderness—but a hobbit child was born within nine to ten months.

For his part, Thorin seemed to be taking a middle path with their little one. It was spring now, seven months after Gandalf's surprising visit, and Thorin was heavy with the baby, but by no means showing signs of being ready to give birth.

Which, frankly, raised another question that no one had answered to Bilbo's satisfaction. He had a passing familiarity with how the childbirth process worked, having shared his hobbit hole with dogs and cats and having lived close to farm life all his days. How in the name of everything bright and holy was a baby going to get out? No one wanted to answer; everyone he asked just turned pale and changed the subject.

Finally, Thorin sighed and wriggled his toes, a sign for Bilbo to let go of his feet. Thorin leaned over enough to snag Bilbo by the arm and haul him up. Pregnant or no, Thorin was still one of the strongest of the dwarves, even if he couldn't fit into any of his armor. He kissed Bilbo gently and said, "You are very kind to me," in a gruff voice that usually presaged sentimental tears these days.

Bilbo patted him on the cheek, never quite certain what to do with this new, softer side of Thorin. It was, at least, much better than the Thorin who screamed insults in Khuzdul when things didn't go his way—Bilbo was starting to learn a few words as a result, but none of them were repeatable in polite company. "Well, you're, erm, carrying my child. I suppose a little kindness is called for."

* * *

A year later, and kindness was growing thin on the ground. Thorin was roughly as wide as he was tall, with his ungainly pregnancy belly leading the way wherever he waddled. The dwarven women took to tutting over him, reassuring him that his time must be near, look, the baby has dropped, Your Majesty. _But dropped to _where_?_ Bilbo always wanted to ask.

Thorin didn't talk these days so much as snarl, and it fell to Bilbo to translate as best he could. He reminded Bilbo of a caged animal, trapped by the awkward ungainliness of his own body. The only place Thorin seemed to find any peace was in their own chamber—after nearly two years and now a child coming, Bilbo had given up his separate quarters and accepted that, like it or not, he was a royal consort now.

The two of them were able to talk when the lamps were dimmed and the room dark. Thorin fretted that he would never again be the warrior he'd been before. Bilbo fretted out loud about names and to himself about the birth process. It had become something of an obsession with him. He'd nearly caused a major incident by trying to find out more about the normal dwarven birthing rituals and customs. He'd been given a stern talking to by Balin and told that he was not to pry any further.

Finally the day arrived when Bilbo found Thorin curled protectively around his belly, wailing in pain. Things were a bit of a blur after that. After the midwives arrived, Bilbo found himself hustled out of the royal quarters and dragged out to the main hall by Dwalin and Balin. Later, he remembered the first mug of ale they pushed upon him, and the second, but nothing after that.

He awoke to one of the midwives shaking him none-too-gently by the shoulder. "Mister Bilbo, you're being asked for."

He lurched to full consciousness, nearly falling off the bench he'd been sitting on. His head felt like a blacksmith's anvil and his mouth tasted like dragon dung. "Thorin? The baby?"

"Come with me," was all the midwife would say, her nose wrinkling a little in disdain. Bilbo followed her towards the royal chambers, his heart and his stomach contents crawling in his throat.

The bedchamber he shared with Thorin was dimly lit and spotlessly clean. There was no sign of anything that might have happened. In the middle of the feather bed lay Thorin, eyes half-closed. He was pale and tired-looking, dark circles beneath his eyes. There was no sign of the baby, and Bilbo's innards lurched. He hurried to the bedside and took one of Thorin's hands.

Thorin opened his eyes and he smiled. "My burglar," he murmured. "You've given more now than you could ever hope to steal."

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply and found an embarrassing lump in his throat. "T-The baby?"

A plump dwarf bustled in carrying a bundle. "Your daughter is healthy as can be, Mister Bilbo. And just fed, so no quick movements, mind. His Majesty did a beautiful job creating the baby, but now like all men, he's going to leave the feeding to someone else, it seems." Her eyes twinkled merrily as she handed Bilbo the tiny bundle.

Bilbo didn't have any more experience with infants than your average bachelor hobbit, which is to say, he had none at all. But the tiny wrinkled, red face that peeked out of the blanket seemed to be the most glorious thing he had ever seen. She already had a full head of dark hair wound in tight, springy curls. Bilbo took a deep breath, and his daughter opened her eyes. Her tiny rosebud mouth puckered and scrunched as she made a face, and Bilbo's world tilted on its axis. He looked up at Thorin to find him watching the two of them.

"What do you think of her?" Thorin asked, sounding amused.

"She's—She's—" Bilbo couldn't say what she was. She was too new, too large a thing to describe in words. Instead he says, "Are _you_ all right? I mean—with the—"

The nursemaid cleared her throat disapprovingly.

"I am well," Thorin said, and he would say no more beyond that.

* * *

Later, when the nurse had gone and it was just the three of them, Bilbo sat next to Thorin, still looking down at this new thing that they had—somehow—created. "I'm sorry," Bilbo said.

"I am the one who should apologise," Thorin muttered. "I am well-informed that my behavior over the past two years has been—"

"No," said Bilbo. "I imagine you would have wanted a son instead, to be your heir."

Thorin laughed, the low, easy sound something that Bilbo hadn't heard in far too long. He reached over and took the baby from Bilbo and brought her up to his face, tickling her with his beard. "I have heirs. And when her beard comes in, little Dis will be a proud, strong warrior, just like her Auntie Gloin."

"Just like—oh. _Oh_." He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I still don't quite understand how all of this... worked."

"I am hardly fit to demonstrate the initial cause at the moment," said Thorin with one of his rare grins.

"No. No, I understand that part—well, mostly. But how did you—"

Thorin raised one finger and pressed it against Bilbo's lips. "Shhh. The baby needs to sleep now. And so do I."

Bilbo never did get his answer. But in the end, he decided he didn't really want to know after all.


End file.
